If there is one thing I learned from the past 16 years,
it would be that grief doesn't leave; it lives.
Grief is a familiar friend and a shadow.
You see her occasionally, but whenever she waves, it's as if she has always been there.
She sits by the counter and asks for coffee. I surmise it's an excuse to start a conversation, but I still give her one anyway.
I brew my newly bought coffee beans, and she asks where I store my sachets.
I say, "It's been a long time since those expired. This tastes way better, so why not give it a try?"
I see her perplexed expression because the last time I saw her, the only drink we enjoyed was a half-empty glass of water.
She stands up and looks for the sachets.
I follow her along the walls.
A faint scent of coffee stimulates my senses.
She looks up with a familiar plastic on her hand and tells me, "It took a while to find this, but here we have it."
I couldn't help but wonder why it was still there.
The house crumbled, and she disappeared once more.
Hello, Grief. It's been a while.
People, things, and pretty much everything come and go.
I still hear their voices at the back of my head, and it feels as though I were still in the same place years ago—
with the same people, the same trees, and the same conversations.
Traces, although clues and riddles left by those who have gone, sometimes act as the persons they once were.
Within and around, Grief follows from childhood homes to mountainous climbs.
Grief taught me that it could be as eager as life, eager enough to remind you of the things that could and should have been—
where the cup should have been placed when no one was home.
And yet, not once did I ever wave back to her desperate attempts at seeking attention.
"Grief is supposed to be overcome," is what I'd normally say.
But it has evolved into something I, or rather, we should learn to live with, as Grief is a companion.
It is Love's complement, where it comes before and after.
It never goes away. It never will, and though I still try to grapple with its very essence, now, I could say that it will still visit you from time to time.
Grief doesn’t end so long as Love exists.
Even if you dine on wider tables, you’d still think of the time when food was easier to pass from one person to another.
Even if you learn to fill the spaces left by those who have gone, you’d still piece a part of them somewhere.
It stays, and so does Love.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 8:44 AM UTC
If there is one thing I learned from the past 16 years,
it would be that grief doesn't leave; it lives.
Grief is a familiar friend and a shadow.
You see her occasionally, but whenever she waves, it's as if she has always been there.
She sits by the counter and asks for coffee. I surmise it's an excuse to start a conversation, but I still give her one anyway.
I brew my newly bought coffee beans, and she asks where I store my sachets.
I say, "It's been a long time since those expired. This tastes way better, so why not give it a try?"
I see her perplexed expression because the last time I saw her, the only drink we enjoyed was a half-empty glass of water.
She stands up and looks for the sachets.
I follow her along the walls.
A faint scent of coffee stimulates my senses.
She looks up with a familiar plastic on her hand and tells me, "It took a while to find this, but here we have it."
I couldn't help but wonder why it was still there.
The house crumbled, and she disappeared once more.
Hello, Grief. It's been a while.
People, things, and pretty much everything come and go.
I still hear their voices at the back of my head, and it feels as though I were still in the same place years ago—
with the same people, the same trees, and the same conversations.
Traces, although clues and riddles left by those who have gone, sometimes act as the persons they once were.
Within and around, Grief follows from childhood homes to mountainous climbs.
Grief taught me that it could be as eager as life, eager enough to remind you of the things that could and should have been—
where the cup should have been placed when no one was home.
And yet, not once did I ever wave back to her desperate attempts at seeking attention.
"Grief is supposed to be overcome," is what I'd normally say.
But it has evolved into something I, or rather, we should learn to live with, as Grief is a companion.
It is Love's complement, where it comes before and after.
It never goes away. It never will, and though I still try to grapple with its very essence, now, I could say that it will still visit you from time to time.
Grief doesn’t end so long as Love exists.
Even if you dine on wider tables, you’d still think of the time when food was easier to pass from one person to another.
Even if you learn to fill the spaces left by those who have gone, you’d still piece a part of them somewhere.
It stays, and so does Love.
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